Monsters
by rainbowfrite
Summary: 00 agents are like bad pennies - they just keep turning up. [00Silva, implied 00Q, oneshot]


Nothing happens.

Silva leaves him tied to a chair surrounded by his computers and that is it. The ties would be easy enough to get out of, but that's the whole point - cat and mouse, Bond thinks, but he isn't going to give chase. Not this time.

A bird flies in through a broken window and lands in the middle of the room, pecks at some grass growing through a crack in the concrete floor. It looks directly at Bond for one second, two, three, then flies away through a different window. And he is alone again.

Nothing more happens.

The elevator at the bottom of the room whirs into life, the lever above it counting up as it climbs through the skeleton of the building. There's a moment of silence and it descends again, the lever counting down to the ground floor. The bell rings, the mechanical noise of the doors opening drowned out by Bond's rhythmic, forced, breathing. From the elevator doors Silva would have the perfect shot. He'd be dead instantly, or maybe he would aim out a little and make it last.

The doors open all the way.

And the elevator is empty.

Nothing more happens.

Night falls and the sun rises and noon comes and goes before the elevator moves again. Bond follows the lever with his eyes as it swings all the way to one side of the dial and all the way back. The bell rings, the doors open, and Silva is there. Arms spread and smile tight as the doors slide outward to reveal him like a game-show prize.

Another bird flies through the window and, as it arcs toward the patch of grass, Silva draws his gun and shoots it out of the air. Feathers fly, there is a dull thud as the body of the bird hits the ground, and all around the gunshot echoes. Bond doesn't flinch.

Silva prowls toward him, smiling. "The hunt," he says, jerking a thumb at the dead bird.

Bond doesn't say anything. Not that he could if he wanted to, having not drunk anything for almost forty eight hours. He peels his tongue away from the roof of his mouth and watches Silva cross the room, the light from the dusty windows creating a halo around him. When he reaches Bond's chair he stops, swinging his arms behind his back. To draw a gun? No, the way his jacket hangs shows he is unarmed. A knife? He could have one concealed in the back of his trousers.

Nothing happens.

They stay that way, Bond looking up at Silva who watches him with an amused smirk. He cocks his head to the side, wets his lips. After a long moment of silence he asks, "Any requests, Mr. Bond?"

"A cigarette."

"Smoking kills."

"So do I."

A smile plays upon Silva's lips and he produces a packet of cigarettes from his inside jacket pocket. He pops one in his mouth, produces a tarnished Zippo and lights it, snapping the Zippo shut with a flamboyant flick of the wrist. He inhales, holds his breath, his eyes on Bond's as he exhales slowly. Smoke clouds them both.

Jamming the cigarette between his lips where it hangs, limply, Silva grabs a roll of electrical tape from a desk behind him and tears a strip off. The cigarette drops ash onto the knee of Bond's trousers as Silva leans in and presses the tape to his mouth.

"What was that?" Silva cups a hand to his ear and giggles. He snatches the cigarette from his mouth and kisses Bond through the tape, presses the red hot end of the cigarette to it soon after and stubs it out on the wood of the chair between Bond's legs. Bond doesn't react, doesn't blink or flinch or look insulted by the cheap cigarette he was offered. Silva steps back to study him, face a mask of false pity. "00 agents are like bad pennies – they keep turning up. You and I, we aren't one in a million. The opposite, in fact. And as long as that remains true we will always be disposable. She will never, ever hesitate to pull the trigger. She will never think twice about sending you blindly into the open arms of your killer. What do you say that that, James?" he cups a hand to his ear again, stands like that for a second before hooking the toe of his shoe under the seat of the chair and kicking it hard.

The back legs give way and the chair falls, winding Bond as he lands heavily with a groan. With both hands pinned painfully beneath him he finds himself taking a long, slow breath to centre himself. Silva stands with his feet either side of Bond's head and looks down on him. He wears a look Bond is more used to seeing on himself – almost vacant, eyes clear, how he looks just before the kill. Silva's foot comes to rest on his exposed throat, presses hard enough to make it hard to swallow.

As soon as the pressure is there it is gone and Silva kneels over him, leaning in close. "Oh, the things I'd do to you," he says as he rolls his hips down, grinding against Bond with a slow smile. He yanks the strip of electrical tape away from Bond's mouth in one, swift motion and drops his head to kiss him. The blood from his torn lips is fresh in both their mouths, makes James gag.

"Oh, please, don't act like this repulses you. I know all about your extra-curricular activities with your quartermaster." Silva reaches behind him and unfastens Bond's trousers without even looking back to see what he is doing. "You should play with someone your own size, how old is he, anyway?"

"Old enough," Bond mutters, trying not to tense as Silva slides a hand into his open fly.

Silva doesn't say anything, his breathing doesn't even change. The latter can't be said for Bond. He thinks of M, of that stupid bloody bulldog on her desk, he thinks of Tanner, he thinks of a bullet piercing a skull at point blank range, the smell of a body four days dead. But his body betrays him and he comes anyway, much to Silva's amusement. He brings his hand up to Bond's mouth and forces his fingers past his lips. Over his own taste there is the overwhelming tang of gunpowder and he has to wonder if he was wrong about Silva being armed.

Still pushing his fingers around Bond's mouth Silva says, "Open wide, now," and unfastens his own pants. He shuffles forward on his knees and thrust his erection forward in place of his fingers. It hits the back of Bond's throat and makes him gag, brings tears to his eyes. Silva fucks his face roughly, one hand pinning his head down and one steadying himself. He doesn't pull out when he comes, keeps his dick in Bond's mouth saying "swallow, it's only polite."

Bond does, reluctantly, and tries to keep a flush of shame from colouring his face.

Silva stands up and fastens his pants, tucks in his shirt and straightens his jacket. "Like a pro," he says. "You should reconsider your line of work, Mr. Bond. I'll have a vacancy, soon."

Bond doesn't say anything, stares at the roof. There are cracks in the ceiling tiles; one of them has a plant growing out of it.

"Your loss." Silva pulls the chair back up onto all four legs and sits on Bond's lap, reaching behind him to unfasten his cuffs. Bond stiffens, waiting for something to happen.

Nothing happens.

Silva gets up, walks away. Bond follows him outside, rubbing his wrists as he goes.

Back at MI6, Q finds him almost straight away and drags him into an empty office. "What happened?" He asks.

"I didn't pass my tests, did you know that? Did everybody know?"

"No, James, I didn't...calm down, okay? We are on your side."

Bond's face falls, "Are you?"

"I heard. About the girl. That isn't your fault."

"If you know what happened why are you asking?" Bond snaps, irritated. He pinches the bridges of his nose and takes a deep breath.

"All I know is what was written in the report. And that you didn't bring the gun back. I bet you have a huge unreturned library book bill."

Bond gives him a look.

Q sighs. "I'm asking you what happened. Really."

Bond presses his lips together into a tight line. "What happened," he says, "is I got shot. Everything else is just collateral damage." He goes to walk away but Q grabs his wrist, tugs him back.

Nothing happens.

They stand like that for a moment, unsure of who is more shocked by the situation. Q opens his mouth to say something but simply exhales, lets his hand fall open. Bond snatches his wrist to his chest and rubs at the still-healing wounds left by Silva's cuffs and stares Q down. When he leaves Q shivers, and remembers never to ask questions about a job again.


End file.
